


I Cannot Afford to Sleep

by BarlowGirl



Series: Come to My Window [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: BAMF Lydia Martin, Can werewolves get hangovers?, Derek Hale's face gives me feels, Drugged!Derek, M/M, Stiles POV, Still no smut sadly, Still pre-slash I think
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-08
Updated: 2012-12-08
Packaged: 2017-11-20 14:55:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,554
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/586602
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BarlowGirl/pseuds/BarlowGirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Stiles’ heart gave an uncomfortable lurch which was so not fair. That was supposed to be a Lydia-Martin-Looked-At-Him thing. “Um. Thanks?” He cleared his throat and stood up. “Jacket off, I guess. Probably not comfortable.”</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>“And kind of damp,” Derek added, like he was actually trying to be helpful.</i>
</p>
<p> <i>Stiles shook his head. “Yeah. Let’s de-leather you, then."</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	I Cannot Afford to Sleep

**Author's Note:**

> First, thanks to everyone who read, commented, and gave kudos on Wait By the Light of the Moon! I'm honestly shocked and I'm glad you all liked it so much.
> 
> I can't sleep so I figured I'd post part two since it's a bit shorter. Part three will be longer (around six thousand words) and I will probably end up posting that on Sunday because I'm impatient. This part is from Stiles' POV. Part three will alternate.
> 
> Title is from Melissa Etheridge's Come to My Window because I enjoy puns.

When Derek fell through his window, Stiles knew something was wrong. Mostly because of the whole, you know, _werewolf thing._ Derek was probably the least clumsy person Stiles knew.

“Oh my God, what did you do now? Are you bleeding and do I need to get out the wolfsbane kit?” Stiles jerked to his feet, computer chair banging into the desk. “Come on, give me an answer here, dude.”

And now there was an Alpha werewolf lying on his bedroom floor, legs still hanging halfway out the window, blinking up at him like he didn’t understand how words worked.

Derek gave a confused frown. His face was somehow more open than usual, less… scowly. “Falling over is weird.”

Stiles took a step closer. He couldn’t see blood anywhere, but Derek had on the leather jacket again, the one that used to be too big. He filled it out better in the shoulders now, but the cuffs still fell past his knuckles. Stiles wondered absently if he’d inherited it from someone and immediately knew he didn’t want to know the answer to that. There was no good answer to that question.

“You… seem completely loaded right now, dude.” Stiles ran his hands over his hair, rubbing the fuzz of his hair. “Werewolves can’t get drunk so what _happened_?”

“Lydia’s idea. Something about slower reflech – reflect – to make me slower.” Derek rubbed his hands over his face. “It worked. It worked really good.”

Stiles sighed. “Okay. We should probably get you all the way inside before somebody calls my dad about his house being broken into.”

The last thing he needed was his dad to find an under-the-influence-of-Lydia-Martin’s-genius-slash-terror Derek Hale in his bedroom at God only knew what time it was. He was trying to _keep_ his father from having a heart attack, thank you very much.

“Oh.” Derek nodded. He pushed up on his elbows, tilting his head back to look at Stiles. “Right. You’re upside down.”

“And you’re going to get arrested again. Come on, Buck.” He grabbed Derek under the arms and tugged on him until he slid the rest of the way into the bedroom.

Derek groaned when his feet slammed into the floor. “Buck? I don’t understand half the things you say, Stiles.”

“Call of the Wild.” Stiles leaned over the werewolf on his floor to close the window and blinds. “You know, Jack London? Sled dogs?”

“Never read it. I used to like Goosebumps when I was a kid. The werewolf ones were completely wrong and kind of just made me laugh. Laura got pissed at me once and Mom and Dad had to make her buy me new copies. Can I get off the floor now?”

Stiles shook his head. “Nobody’s making you stay there, dude.”

Derek gave him a strangely wounded look and held out a hand. It took Stiles a moment to realize what he wanted. Then he sighed and grabbed Derek’s hands, bracing himself with his feet at shoulder width.

He almost fell over at the first tug. All the lacrosse practices in the world wouldn’t make him a two-hundred pound werewolf who could probably bench press his jeep. But he braced himself more firmly and slowly pulled Derek to his feet.

The werewolf stumbled right into him, sending them both back into the wall. Stiles’ shoulder slammed into the window frame and he groaned, feeling a bruise blooming already.

“Sorry,” Derek mumbled, his face way too close as he squeezed his eyes shut. “I didn’t… it was like the room was spinning.”

Stiles sighed and patted him on the shoulder. “Yeah, it’s called being dizzy. New experience for you?”

To his surprise, Derek nodded. “Born, not bitten, remember?”

“Right. You… why _are_ you here?”

Derek shrugged, slumping more into Stiles’ space. “Isaac’s with Scott. Peter’s at the subway station ’cause it’s raining. Don’t wanna be around him like this. And my house smells like ashes and rot and…”

He swallowed, nodding. He got it. Derek’s house, the home he’d grown up in, lived in for a decade and a half, smelled like the murder of his entire family. Stiles wasn’t about to get drunk and go sniffing hospital sheets himself.

“Okay,” he said. “You know what? I got a bed. Crash there for tonight. I’ll sleep on the couch or something.”

He shoved his shoulders under Derek’s arm, fingers wrapped around Derek’s wrist. This was weird. For once, his heart wasn’t racing in his chest doing this. Nobody was bleeding, nobody was paralyzed, nobody was coming to kill them while Derek leaned on him.

Some traitorous part of his brain whispered that he could get used to this. But that part of his brain had made him spend eight years making a fool of himself over Lydia instead of treating her like an actual person. That part of his brain obviously was not to be trusted.

Derek dropped onto his bed, pulling his arm away to grope at the covers. “Can I lie down? Is that okay?”

“Ah… no. Not yet. I don’t need rain and mud and small furry woodland creature entrails from your boots on my sheets. That shit’s hard to wash out.”

“Oh.” Derek frowned at his feet. “Not wearing boots.”

Stiles blinked and looked down. “Huh. Sneakers. Haven’t seen you wearing those since you levelled up. Dude, do you need help? ’Cause you kind of look like you’re about to fall over?”

The werewolf sitting on the side of his bed didn’t move, not even to lift his head, but his voice came out too soft. “You want to undress me?”

Wow, there was a question Stiles didn’t want to answer. What was he supposed to say? Yes, Derek, I’d like to undress you? Possibly with my teeth, but I haven’t really examined that particular fantasy too closely because you’re an Alpha werewolf in his twenties who I’m still not entirely sure doesn’t want me dead sometimes and I’m hyperactive, paranoid jailbait?

Stiles managed a shrug. “You did it for me when I was drunk. Thanks for that, by the way. Scott never does and I always wake up all sweaty and gross.”

For a second, he almost thought the corner of Derek’s mouth crooked up. “’Cause Scott’s a terrible friend?”

“Sometimes, yeah,” Stiles said, dropping to his knees on the floor in front of Derek and trying not to think about how this would look if someone walked in. He reached for Derek’s foot. “But, you know, it’s been a rough year. And when a guy goes to your mother’s funeral and stands next to you and then stays with you for two weeks because you keep crying yourself to sleep, it’s kind of hard to hold a few bad months against him.”

“Even the parts where he tried to kill you?”

Stiles glanced up at Derek for a second before continuing to untie his shoelaces. “When my mom was sick, Scott used to bring her pictures that he’d drawn. He’s pretty good, too. The smell of flowers made her queasy so he’d draw them for her. The ones from her garden. Scott, he thought my dad was the coolest thing ever because he was a cop and he never made fun of me when I was a kid and I couldn’t focus on anything. He put up with me being obsessed with Lydia and he didn’t think I was weird when we were ten and I told him I thought guys were cute, too.”

He pulled Derek’s shoes off, dropping them next to the nightstand. “He’s my best friend. I probably wasn’t exactly a great friend back then. It’s his turn now.”

When he looked up again, Derek had leaned closer. Maybe on purpose, maybe not, but either way, his frowny face was seriously too close to Stiles’. “Okay. You have nice eyes. Pretty.”

Stiles’ heart gave an uncomfortable lurch which was so not fair. That was supposed to be a Lydia-Martin-Looked-At-Him thing. “Um. Thanks?” He cleared his throat and stood up. “Jacket off, I guess. Probably not comfortable.”

“And kind of damp,” Derek added, like he was actually trying to be helpful.

Stiles shook his head. “Yeah. Let’s de-leather you, then. You want to borrow a shirt?”

“I don’t fit in your clothes, Stiles.”

Derek sounded oddly hurt about that fact and… guilty?

“I…” Stiles pulled the sleeve of Derek’s jacket off one arm. “Well, no. You’re kind of huge, man. And I’m… me. But I could steal one of Dad’s T-shirts for you. I used to take them to sleep in when he started working night shifts and I got lonely.”

There also might be a certain grey Henley that he’d washed bloodstains out of and slept in sometimes, despite the holes in the side, but he wasn’t about to tell Derek that. Or anybody. Ever.

“No.” Derek let him pull the other sleeve off. Stiles took a step away, hanging the jacket on the back of his desk chair so it’d dry. Damp leather probably smelled funny to werewolves or something. “No, I’m fine. Can I lie down now?”

He was still wearing jeans. Ones that were also probably still damp. Which probably totally chafed…but did Derek even wear boxers? Or boxer-briefs? Or did he go commando?

Stiles swallowed. “Uh, yeah. Go ahead. I’m gonna go… be right back.”

He half-ran down the stairs, not stopping until he was in the kitchen and leaning against the sink. Oh holy God, this was so many levels of not okay. His dad would _murder_ him if he ever found out about this. There was no good way to explain a twenty-something ex-fugitive in his bed.

Rubbing his hands over his hair, he exhaled slowly and shook himself. Especially one that looked like Derek.

And that was a train of thought he was not going to ride.

He opened the fridge and grabbed a bottle of water. Even werewolves had to get dehydrated, right? Could they get hangovers?

“Hey, Derek,” Stiles said a moment later, pushing his bedroom door open. “Are you going to wake up with–”

He stopped dead. A certain werewolf was sprawled across his bed in a T-shirt and… yup, boxer-briefs. Black, of course, like Derek’s soul. Good to know. His fantasies would probably enjoy that information later.

After a second, he walked over to his bed and set the bottle of water on the dresser. “You aren’t wearing pants anymore.”

Derek pressed his face into Stiles’ pillow. “Sorry, m’jeans were wet and I didn’t wanna get your sheets gross.”

“No problem, buddy. Whatever makes you comfortable.” Stiles rubbed the back of his neck. “I’m just gonna grab my laptop and head downstairs.”

“No.”

“What?”

Derek shifted, pulling Stiles’ pillow closer. “S’your bed. You shouldn’t have to leave it.”

Stiles frowned. “Do you want me to stay?”

The werewolf in his bed shrugged, trying to press his face even deeper into the pillow.

Derek had stayed for him, when he’d gotten so wasted last month. Probably mostly because Lydia had made him or to make sure that Stiles didn’t choke to death on his own spit or something – Stiles’ memory of that night was a bit fuzzy – but he’d still stayed.

“Fine, just don’t murder me if I fall asleep and drool on you.”

He walked around and sat on the empty side of the bed, hesitating before slipping his feet under the covers. Awkward it may be, but his feet were freezing.

Derek suddenly leaned up on one elbow and caught Stiles’ arm. “Hey, c’mere for a sec.”

He felt his mouth drop open. “What?”

“You–” Derek’s eyebrows drew together as he leaned closer, lifting his hand to the collar of Stiles’ shirt. “Did I hurt you earlier? When I fell on you?”

He tugged at the collar. It was an old shirt, stretched out and soft, and slipped halfway down Stiles’ shoulder before he jumped and pulled away.

“Hey, no, it’s fine.” Stiles pulled his shirt back into place. “Don’t worry. I’ve flailed my way into far worse injuries. And that was before the werewolf thing happened. You stole my pillow.”

Great. His verbal filter had apparently run off to Timbuktu. Sometimes he really hated when the Adderall wore off.

Stiles leaned back against the headboard and frowned at Derek. “Look, it’s just a bruise. And, I mean, dude, you once slammed my face into my own steering wheel. Which, by the way, ouch.”

Derek pulled away, pushing his face back into the pillow he was holding on to for dear life. “I don’t… I don’t like flirting to get something. Don’t want my face or my body to be all I’m good for. But I’m sorry I hit you. Forget you’re not… you act like more of a werewolf than Scott sometimes.”

Stiles sighed. “Man. You really suck at being human sometimes, huh?”

“Not human.”

“No,” Stiles said quietly. “You’re not, are you? How long are you going to keep my pillow?”

Okay, his brain could _quit_ with the pillow thing.

Derek shrugged. “Smells like you. Nice. Home never smells like home anymore.”

For a moment, Stiles lost all ability to speak. He had a headstone with his mother’s name on to leave flowers in front of, a sweater he’d stolen from his parents’ closet hidden in the back of his own, a father who still wore his wedding band, photos. He had memories everywhere and the space his mother left in their lives still made him ache.

How could Derek stand it?

“Okay, you can keep it for tonight,” he said after a long moment. “Whatever – whatever works for you, dude.” He glanced over at Derek. “You think I smell nice?”

“Mmhmm. You do. Here, c’mere, I can show you…”

Derek slipped his hand around the back of Stiles’ neck and tugged hard enough that Stiles sprawled towards him.

“What the holy hell–” His words broke off on a sudden shudder as a nose pressed against the side of his heck. Well, his traitor brain thought, at least he knew now that werewolves didn’t have cold noses.

“Here,” Derek whispered, breath hot against Stiles’ throat. “’Specially right here.”

“Oh God, you’re going to rip my throat out when you’re sober.” Gently, he shoved Derek away. “You are so going to kill me tomorrow.”

Derek rolled his eyes before shoving back into Stiles’ pillow. “Not gonna kill you, idiot. Don’t want more blood on my hands. And I don’t want _you_ dead. You wouldn’t smell as good if you were dead.”

Stiles snorted. “I’m not sure if that was a joke or not at this point. So it’s not my soap or something? It’s actually me?”

“Your soap smells fine," Derek mumbled. "Part of your scent. But it’s fine and you’re… more than fine.”

“That a werewolf thing?”

Derek shook his head slightly, his face half-buried in the pillow now. “Me thing. Also think your mouth is pretty, your eyes are kind of beautiful and I know I shouldn’t but I want to know what your hands would feel like… everywhere.”

“Oh,” Stiles whispered.

Derek didn’t say anything and when he looked over, the werewolf was asleep. In his bed. Which apparently he liked the smell of because he was hot for underage, hyperactive, dorky Stilinski ass.

“Oh,” Stiles said again, breathless.


End file.
